


What We Are

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Boys Kissing, Deathfic, Demons, Heaven & Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Limbo, M/M, Murder, Self-Hatred, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-01-27 12:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12581864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Tough guy Alfred Jones wakes up in a strange forest with no memory of how he got there. He soon meets Arthur Kirkland, a prissy Brit in a similar position. The unlikely duo have no idea where on earth they are... until they realize that there aren't anywhere on earth. They are trapped in purgatory, and the only way out is to face their demons—which is a hell of a lot easier said than done.[Teenage USUK.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I am not religious in any shape or form. 'Limbo' and 'purgatory' are used interchangeably here. None of this is a statement of my beliefs about afterlife, because I don't have any. Also, the title is (obviously) from Irvine Welsh, a book of his called "Filth" (which isn't really a book you recommend to people, but it has some nice quotes in it).
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

_“We wait and think and doubt and hate. We hate ourselves for being unable to be other than what we are.”_

_—Irvine Welsh_

 

* * *

 

 

There was red in his brain, black in his eyes. Everything was nothing. . . .

Alfred Jones bolted upright, heart racing. Sunlight blinded; he lifted a shielding hand to his brow. A sense of vertigo, disorientation, twirled around his head. His vision bled back in slowly, blotted by fiery smudges from the sun’s overexposure. Ancient trees towered all around him, dark green conifers; the ground was a thick carpet of needles, the same ochre as the butterscotch chips his mother baked into his favorite cookies. Normally the thought of the sweets would make his stomach growl, but he felt nothing now except a desolate confusion. He didn’t recognize this forest. As a lifelong urbanite, he’d never _been_ in a forest. The only trees he ever encountered were in parks, and he hadn’t gone to a park since he was a kid. A faint memory trickled in, a smiling boy tipping his face back to the sun as he swung to and fro on a public swingset. Shoelaces streaming from untied sneakers, cheeks bulging with bubblegum. Any other time, a thought like that would make his heart ache and he’d be driven to lay into his punching bag, the pounding of his fists a eulogy for his innocence. But now all the memory brought was a throbbing in his skull. Not a simple headache. If anything, this was a migraine: waves of pain, each with sharper stabs to his brain than the last. Alfred closed his eyes and massaged his fingertips into his temples. He made it a point not to let himself get overwhelmed these days, but he was getting close. His thoughts were scattered, he was in the middle of nowhere as far as he was concerned, and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here.

“Ahem.”

Alfred opened his eyes, dropping his hands to his sides. A few feet away, his green eyes and pale face schooled into wary politeness, another man stood. He looked young, maybe a year or two older than Alfred. And, judging by the fancy pants and blazer with an academic badge of some sort, he was probably a private school prefect. The stranger noticed Alfred’s attention on his clothing and took the time to straighten his tie and smooth down his tucked-in dress shirt before he bothered to initiate conversation. _Snobby rich kid._

“How long have you been here?” asked the stranger. He had the strongest posh accent Alfred had ever heard (not that he made a habit of chatting up blue bloods). It was so nasal compared to the way Alfred spoke, he thought it might have been done as a joke. But when he started to smile, the stranger’s thick brow furrowed and he said, “Why _are_ you staring at me?”

 _Snobby British rich kid. Great._ Alfred crossed his arms over his chest and leant his shoulder against the trunk of a skyscraping pine. “What’s it to you how long I been here?”

The Brit wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, an American. I thought you were just a chav. Those are bad enough.” He sighed, one delicate-fingered hand moving to rest on his hip, the embodiment of exasperation.

If Alfred wasn’t so caught up in hating how prissy the other man was, he’d be pretty turned on by the slim line of that waist under the blazer. “Yeah, well, my idea of company ain’t exactly a chinless wonder like you.”

The soft jaw hung open in astonishment; then the eyes flared with indignant flames of emerald fire. “How _dare_ you! We’ve only just met and you’ve already insulted my heritage.” He mirrored Alfred, crossing his arms over his chest, though his version of the pose was childish in its impotent frustration. At least Alfred understood that you were supposed to look like you didn’t give a damn. This guy clearly had a stick made of damns shoved firmly up his ass, because right now he was saying, “. . . have you know that I come from a very respected line of—”

“Blah blah blah,” said Alfred, loudly, just so he could maintain some grasp on his sanity.

The Brit blinked, taken aback for a moment, then scoffed. “Typical American. I don’t know why I expected to have an intelligent conversation with you.”

Alfred snorted, purposefully making it as obnoxious as possible. There was a time when he wouldn’t have pounced so quickly on an opportunity for aggression, but those days were long since past. “That’s ’cause you’re a lobsterback, nothing’s ever good enough for you people.”

The stranger’s eyes flashed again, but he paused right before he exploded, and asked with surprising composure, “And what does lobsterback mean?”

“You.” Alfred jerked his head at the other man to indicate him with as little effort as possible. “British.”

The Brit stepped closer, already lording it over Alfred. “And why do you call us that?”

 _God, he sounds like a freakin’ professor._ In truth, Alfred didn’t know where any of the slurs he used came from. He didn’t care about that; it wasn’t within his best interest to know _why_ you called someone something, just that you did, and when you did it drew a line between you and made you safe. In a city, harsh words were as much a weapon as a knife or pepper spray. Survival tactics. Preemptive self-defense was necessary in a world that was constantly out to get you. Only the strongest survived, and Alfred made sure if he wasn’t the strongest, he stuck close to those who were. _And this spoiled brat wouldn’t last five seconds on my streets._

When Alfred failed to provide a snappy response, the Brit informed him, “It’s for the scarlet of our uniforms during the Revolutionary War. Redcoats.” He lifted his nose into the air and replied haughtily, “If the American education system was worth tuppence, you would know this.”

“You can stop being a prick anytime,” Alfred informed him, giving the acidic fake smile that his guidance counselor once said made him look like a blue-eyed devil. A pretty hick thing to say, but Alfred still wondered if he should take it as a compliment or not. His father would have. Pain—he hadn’t noticed its absence while he was talking, but now it was back in full force—bloomed from the left side of his skull, spreading, contagious agony.

The stranger bristled. “ _Me_? _You_ started this bloody argument, you stupid—”

“Shut _up_.” Alfred massaged his temples, but it didn’t help. Actually, it almost seemed like hearing the Brit speak made the pain subside. _Must be some weird brain thing._ His brain might want to, but _he_ certainly didn’t want to hear the English bastard rant.

He expected the stranger to snap, but instead the other man closed his eyes and held up his hands as if in surrender. After a deep breath, the eyes opened again, a much calmer green than before. He took another step closer, held out a hand, and said, “I do beg your pardon. Let’s try this again, shall we? Wipe the slate clean, as they say. We’re, ah, square?”

Alfred raised an incredulous eyebrow. He considered slapping the hand just to freak the crumpet stuffer out, but he decided he had nothing to lose by being civil, so he took the hand—tiny, soft, cold in his—and said, “Yeah, we’re square.”

The smile was a bit strained, but relief softened his gaze. “Good. Now, at last, we can be properly introduced. I’m Arthur Kirkland, and you are . . . ?”

“Alfred Jones.” He gave a heartier handshake than Arthur was used to—it felt like he could yank that skinny arm clean off if he tried hard enough—then let go and asked, “So what the hell is this place, anyway?”

Arthur slipped his hands into the pockets of his blazer. “Your guess is about as good as mine.” He tipped his head back to stare thoughtfully at the needled boughs high above, and Alfred silently admired the pale slope of throat the position offered up. He’d never seen a neck that smooth. _What is he, too pretty for an Adam’s apple?_ Something felt strange, so Alfred let his gaze rise—and found Arthur looking right back at him.

“You’re staring again,” remarked the Brit, though he didn’t sound particularly bothered. Or surprised.

“Yeah.” He almost said _I can look where I want_ , but the words were jagged in his mind. As soon as he decided to let something else fall from his tongue, the discomfort vanished. _This is freakin’ weird._ “You’re not too bad to look at.”

A thick eyebrow arched. “Really.”

The complete lack of shock—even at how upfront Alfred’s flirting was—made him wonder if the Englishman thought he was joking. Or was he actually so used to being complimented that it became mundane, humdrum? The thought left a bad taste in Alfred’s mouth. He didn’t bother trying to trick himself into thinking it was just hatred; his only hatred was for himself. No, this was jealousy, plain and simple. Jealousy and something even more basic, or _base_ , rather. He was used to trifling attraction, but it had been a long time since he let himself sink down into a deep, satisfying feeling of lust.

Guilt was gasoline splashed onto the fire. _The more you get, the more you want._ Shame just made his blood hotter. _Selfish bastard._ And there, there it was, drowning in kerosene, breathing black. Without a thought, without reason beyond a cutting word, the bat swung. _Just like your father._

Alfred nearly dropped to his knees. The pain in his head was unbelievable. He could not think through it. He could barely see through it. Black and red burned into his eyes. Were his eyes bleeding? Was black blood oozing from his brain? He coughed up his soul. _Where am I?_

“Alfred?”

And just like that, the pain was gone. Alfred look up from where he was doubled over, hands on his head. Arthur stood before him, fingertips light on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Do I look alright to you?” Alfred straightened up cautiously, expecting the horrible pain to come back at any second. “Christ, it felt like my head was gonna fall off. Now I’m gonna be paranoid about that happening again, forever. I ain’t going to no doctor either, waste of money I ain’t got.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling that one curl spring up against his wrist as he did. _Damn cowlick_. He hated it. Made him look like some good country boy, or some twunk in a boyband—with a scarf. “God, I’m about sick of this, lemme tell ya. Where the hell are we? Did we get kidnapped and dropped out here or something? Did they plant some kind of, I don’t know, microchip in my head or something? Where _are_ we?”

Arthur’s expression was troubled. “Alfred . . . what do you last remember?”

“I dunno.” He tried to think back, but his thoughts were no clearer than they were when he first opened his eyes. “I can’t remember anything.”

“But you know your name. You know what year it is.” Arthur steepled his fingers and rested his thumbs just beneath his lower lip, staring straight ahead into nothing as he lost himself in thought. “We have long-term memories . . . And your head hurts . . . Short-term amnesia from head trauma? But my head doesn’t hurt, and I can’t remember anything, either.” He lowered his hands, looking over at Alfred. “How long have you been here?”

 _Back to the beginning._ (How poetic.) Alfred lifted his shoulders in a lackadaisical shrug. “However long we’ve been talking. You showed up right after I came to.” Then, something occurred to him. “Why, how long have _you_ been here?”

Arthur went very still, then glanced away with a slight shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Not very long.”

Alfred stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? How long is _not very long_?”

Arthur waved a hand in the air like he was swatting at the ghost of a mosquito. “Well . . . I’ve been here since dawn.”

“Dawn.” Alfred glanced up at the sky, difficult to see through all the trees. “It looks like the sun is setting now. It’s all orange up there.” There was no visible horizon anywhere; the forest was thick almost to the point of claustrophobia.

“Time is strange here, I think,” said Arthur, uncertainty plain. “Perhaps it’s just because I don’t have a watch. Do you have one, by any chance?”

For some reason, the Brit’s hopeful expression made Alfred’s chest hurt. “No, I don’t. I’d normally have my phone, but I guess that’s gone. And my keys.” He searched his pockets, just to be sure, but there was nothing but lint. “Damn. Well, if somebody gets into my place, they won’t have much to steal.”

Arthur gave the ghost of a smile, even though he clearly didn’t see the humor in poverty. “Do you live by yourself? You don’t look old enough. If you don’t mind my saying so,” he added quickly, as if that made the previous statement less intrusive.

“I’m seventeen,” Alfred told him. “I live with my dad in his shithole apartment.”

“Oh.” Arthur had to think for a moment. “So you’re in your last year of . . . high school, then?”

“Yeah, I would be if I was still in school.” Alfred scuffed his sneaker through the needles, leaving a dark gash where the damp earth showed through.

“You aren’t in school?” Arthur said this like he’d never heard of a young person who wasn’t trapped in the prison that was the education system. _What a nice, sheltered life he must have. Rich bitch._ (Harsh, but not inaccurate.) Tentatively, Arthur asked, “Did you, ah, did you . . . drop out?”

“Nope.” Alfred kicked the ground again, making an X with the marks. _Buried treasure_. “Got expelled.”

“Oh,” Arthur said again, eyes wide. Probably wondering what sort of delinquent he was dealing with now. He didn’t ask what the grounds of the expulsion were—even though Alfred would have told him because he didn’t give a shit—and instead brought the conversation back to its natural habitat: himself. “Well, as for me, I’ve just finished up sixth form. I _almost_ got top marks on my A Levels, but the headmaster’s daughter snuck by. Everyone suspects foul play, and I honestly wouldn’t put it past them all, everything is very cloak and dagger. Father claims it used to be worse, if you can believe it, and I—”

“ _Blah_ ,” Alfred interrupted, very loudly. “Blah. Blah.”

Arthur gave a brief glare before huffing a sigh. “Well. We still don’t know what’s going on. They always say, if you’re lost, you should stay where you are, but . . .” He rotated slowly, looking all around them. “I don’t think we are lost, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh, so you know where we are now?” Alfred threw up his hands. “You coulda said that, like, an hour ago.”

“Well, no, I don’t know _where_ we are. Not . . . not in the sense that you’re thinking of. Let’s go through the facts.” Arthur ticked his sentences off on pale, slender fingers. “Neither of us remember how we got here. Neither of us know where this place is. Neither of us have been here before. We have no wounds or any sign that we’ve been attacked or kidnapped. And, most importantly, this place is . . . off.”

“Off,” echoed Alfred, dubious.

“Yes. We’re outdoors, in the summer, and yet there are no birds singing. No insects to speak of. No sound at all, except for what comes from us.” Arthur wetted a fingertip between his lips—an action so abruptly sexy that Alfred’s groin had a heart attack—and raised his hand in the air, finger pointed upward. “There’s not even a breeze.”

Now Alfred’s brow furrowed. He shouldered off his bomber jacket and swiveled, swinging his arms out around him. Outside, with the sun going down, there should have been a cool current moving across his skin, just barely shifting the hair on his arms. But there was absolutely nothing. It was like he was numb, but—he pinched himself, rubbed his arms—he could feel everything. Unnerved, he declared, “There’s no air here.”

Arthur blinked slowly, as if he were going into a daze. “No . . . air?” Without warning, his eyes flew open wide, and he was clawing at his throat, mouth gaping as he choked and gasped, every cell of his being desperate for a breath. For a few seconds, Alfred could only stare. He’d never seen someone actually suffocating, choking to death. He’d never realized what hideous, inhuman noises the body made when it cared about nothing other than inhaling. Then it occurred to Alfred: _What the hell am I doing?!_

He grabbed for Arthur’s arm. “Are you okay? Is there something stuck in your throat?”

Arthur’s eyes stretched wider, ringed with white like a spooked animal’s. They almost seemed to be rolling back in his head. He shook his head wildly, face flushed with the strain and desperation. Then he would go a bloodless white, and his lips would tint blue. (Who knew suffocation was so patriotic?)

Alfred paced without moving, frustrated by his uselessness. “What can I do? What’s happening? Are you allergic to something?” Another wild shaking of the head, the eyes starting to lose their sparkle. Alfred’s voice rose in a rage. “I’m not just gonna watch you die!”

And just like that, Arthur dropped to his knees, fingers clutching handfuls of needles, and he breathed. He drew in long shaky inhales, then blustered them back out as quick as possible so he could get more in. Alfred stared at him, his heart banging against his sternum, panting a little himself; he hadn’t realized how agitated his own lungs had gotten, witnessing another pair under stress.

“What the _hell_ was that all about?” demanded Alfred, when he could wait no longer.

Arthur sat up wearily, chest still heaving, eyes bright with unfallen tears. “I . . .” His voice was raspy; he swallowed, and it sounded a bit more normal, though it lacked the edge it’d had before. He wasn’t supercilious now. He was just a man, a human. “I think . . . oh, God.”

“ _What_?”

Softly, Arthur said, “I think I know where we are.”

Alfred scoffed. “You’re crazy. Get some oxygen to your brain. What are you saying, almost dying made you have some kinda epiphany?”

Arthur looked up at him, gaze steady, voice even. “I didn’t almost die.”

“What _ever_ —”

“I _did_ die,” Arthur said, with resolute conviction. “I’m dead.” His voice was hollow; his face was white as bone. A skull. A ghost. “And so are you.”

All at once, the pain—the absolute, unwavering agony—returned to Alfred’s head. He clamped his hands around it, tearing at his hair; if escape from this torture came through release of pressure, he would rip himself apart until his head was a hollowed melon if he had to. Scarlet flashed in front of his eyes. _Redcoats._ The image of Arthur kneeling flickered out like a television set; there was nothing but darkness slashed with red, with suffering. Alfred wanted to scream, but he knew the sound would tear him in half.

Somewhere, Arthur whispered, “We’re in limbo.”

The bat struck. Alfred collapsed into darkness, and—for a while—all was nothing once again.


	2. Chapter 2

_So this is death._ Arthur Kirkland hadn’t really pictured it looking like this. He hadn’t really pictured it at all. His family was religious in the same way other families of their ilk were; they only attended church services twice a year, for Christmas and for Easter, and even then it was more for appearance’s sake than anything. Of course, Arthur was familiar with the common notion of a dual afterlife, heaven for the good chaps and hell for the naughty ones. Heaven was a kingdom in the clouds, hell was a brimstone underworld of punished souls. But this place, this peculiar forest, was neither of those things. There were no deities here, none that Arthur could see. Some said earth was what lay between heaven and hell, but Arthur had heard of a different in-between place as well. Purgatory. Limbo. A waiting room for souls, a place to be judged. _Ladies and gentleman of the jury._ The thought of the intricacies of his soul being laid bare for appraisal made Arthur’s skin crawl.

It occurred to Arthur now—kneeling here on the ground next to an unresponsive American corpse—that the mark of his privileged life was not that he had expensive clothing or clear skin or excellent teeth (although he did have these things, and also his hair was routinely conditioned and moisturized to give it a golden sheen and soft feel) but the fact that he had never experienced something he was unprepared for. He’d had surprises, yes, but they were inconsequential. (Forgetting something, Arthur?) His life had been more or less planned out before he was born, and so far he had stuck to the path beaten for him. Happy childhood, academic excellence, PhD, tenure, marriage, his own children to continue the _very respected line_ that Alfred had no respect for whatsoever. And here he was, dead before he could even start on the third step. All those hours spent alone, studying in his room, while everyone else was partying on Daddy’s yacht or flying for a weekend holiday in Mum’s private jet. He sighed, remembering the solitude of it, at once disheartening and fortifying. _I don’t need them_ , he would think. _But I only think that because I don’t have them._ And around the cycle he would go, heart freezing and cracking like river ice. Such a waste that had been, all of it. None of the peers he’d yearned for were here now. Now all he had were an American lowlife and a tenuous relationship with the concept of breathing.

Arthur put a hand to his chest now, recalling the utter terror he had felt, all his intellect brought to its knees (literally) at the purely instinctual fear of suffocation. _But why? Why would someone already dead be afraid of death?_ Arthur pondered. He could do nothing but speculate, but he suspected it was some sort of curse for spirits in his situation. He thought he could remember seeing a painting once of a shadowy man walking down an oily street, dripping water as if a rain cloud hovered over him: a representation of a sailor drowned at sea, constantly reliving his death as his tortured soul wandered the mortal realm, searching for closure. But they weren’t in the mortal realm right now, surely. If they were, why would their souls be tossed across the world to some random forest? No, Arthur decided, they weren’t on earth any longer. The lack of air—he didn’t let himself think too hard on that, lest he choke again—and the sheer strangeness of the circumstances were enough to indicate that something supernatural was afoot.

 _Well, now I know what happens after death,_ Arthur thought. _Pity I’m dead, or I could write an excellent memoir. Rich_  and _famous, imagine._ He almost smiled at that.

Then he heard a sound.

Arthur pushed to his feet, mentally cursing at the dark stains in the knees of his trousers, and scanned the surrounding trees. Throughout the day, these tightly assembled pines had seemed like a sort of maze at best and a nuisance at worst. Just a whole lot of rough-barked pillars to weave through; just the inability to see around them or walk in a straight line. But now the sky overhead had degenerated from the orange of sunset to the vibrant vermilion of the sun’s final, vengeful death throes. With black clouds swirling over the bloody backdrop, thin as if shredded by a beast, the ceiling of limbo appeared quite sinister indeed. The trees around Arthur, darkening by the second, shared this quality. Nothing was frightening during the day, and nothing _was_ frightening at night.

And now, for the first time since awakening here at dawn, Arthur heard a sound that was neither from himself nor an obnoxious American. He couldn’t see anything that would produce it, nor could he really describe the noise that had been produced. The more he thought about what it might have been, the more he wondered if he’d even heard it in the first place. It was sort of a scrape, sort of a rustle, and a bit louder at the end, but it had only been for a few seconds. It was almost familiar, but in a half-forgotten way. The sort of way that made him think he’d heard the noise the first time and his brain had tossed record of its source away with a shrug. _This isn’t important._ He begged to differ, now, but it was too late.

A logical voice within Arthur’s mind inquired, _Why should I be afraid of whatever it is? I’ve nothing to lose. I’m dead. The worst thing that could happen already happened to me. The biggest fear of the human race no longer applies to me._

But even as he thought it, he knew the last bit was not entirely truthful. The biggest fear was not death itself—it was the unknown that followed death. But humans were afraid of any unknown. And in this shadowy forest, beneath that bloody sky, where Arthur’s eyes failed him and his mind was more than willing to conjure a beast to justify his fear?

The sound came again, _scrape-rustle_ , louder this time. Closer.

Arthur dove for Alfred on the ground, nudging his shoulder and whispering urgently, “Alfred? You have to wake up. Now. I think there’s something . . .” He lifted his head, scanning the shadows again, mind beginning to race along with his heart. Nothing was there. _I can’t see anything. Something could be there, but there probably isn’t anything there. My fear is tricking me into thinking something is there._ Arthur prided himself on an ability to always think objectively, but it was becoming more and more difficult with each passing second. He shook Alfred harder now, pleading under his breath, “Get _up_! Please!”

Alfred’s eyelids flickered, but he didn’t open his eyes. He seemed to be fighting through a thick haze; he looked like a man dredged from the depths of a year-long coma. Arthur couldn’t take it any longer. He hooked his own arms underneath Alfred’s and heaved the American up into a seated position. Arthur had been hoping they wouldn’t have any weight, being trapped souls and all, but this was not the case. With great effort, he hauled the full dead weight of Alfred Jones away from where he’d collapsed. The younger man’s head flopped toward his chest, and his jeans were probably getting covered in dirt, but Arthur didn’t care about that. He _did_ care, however, about the pair of ruts Alfred’s heels were leaving in the needles littering the ground. Whatever was out there would have no trouble at all finding them. Arthur bit back a word that would make his mother faint if she heard it on his tongue.

_Scrape-rustle._

Arthur froze, heart pounding in his throat. The noise cut off again, sounding like it was only a few feet off, just outside of Arthur’s vision in the weak reddish light of the sunless sky. And yet, through the rising fear, clarity shone through. That sound. Experimentally, his breath held, Arthur dragged Alfred just a few inches. His heels scraped the ground; pine needles rustled against his jeans. Arthur let out his breath, brought back once again to the classroom, to his after-school tutor slamming his palm on the desk. _Think clearly! What does this tell us, Arthur?_ Just like the early days of his advanced lessons, he trembled and struggled to produce the sought-for answer. _It means . . . it means . . ._

It meant there was something being dragged across the ground.

Solving one mystery only brought forth another. What was being dragged? Who was dragging it? What did they want to do to Arthur? Should he speak? Should he _run_?

Arthur imagined what Alfred would be doing right now. Probably smacking his chest like an ape and flipping off whatever was in the darkness. _Think you scare me?_ he’d shout. _I ain’t scared of nothin’!_ Arthur searched himself, seeking the true core of himself, the tiny flame that drove him. His ambition, his will. He could do what Alfred would do, couldn’t he? He could make a stand for himself, couldn’t he? He could face this illogical fear!

_Scrape-rustle._

Arthur scrambled backward, tugging Alfred with all his might, away from the cursed noise. Logic, in the face of terror, was not a very motivational speaker. Arthur panted loudly now, giving emasculating sounds of effort as he hauled the heavy American along an uneven trail, steering around the trees only once he’d knocked against them himself. The process was not the swift flight his adrenaline wanted to give him. If their roles were reversed, Alfred could just toss Arthur over his shoulders and go. But Arthur was not big and strong. He could only move slowly, in bursts of progress that were becoming pitifully brief. It was enough to make frustration burn his cheeks, helpless tears gathering in his eyes at the injustice of it all. _I’m frightened and I need help and I’m doing this by myself!_ (Perhaps a nineteen-year-old should not have been whining about such things. But perhaps a nineteen-year-old should not have been dead, either.)

Abruptly, just at the moment his misery outweighed his need to escape danger, his—well—his posterior hit something that was decidedly not a tree trunk. He dropped Alfred in his shock; the American teen slumped back against his legs with a groggy groan. Arthur turned, squinting through the gloom.

A car. Charcoal grey, British-made (of course), the sun’s warmth still lingering faintly in the metal. It would be a beauty, expensive and well-crafted, if not for the hideous front end. The passenger side was a complete ruin, collapsed in on itself as if from a stroke. It wasn’t difficult to imagine it wrapped around a tree. The windscreen was still there, but impossible to see through; the glass was so littered with cracks and fractures and tiny holes, it looked like it had frosted over.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. _Oh, Christ. My car. I remember. . . ._

But this wasn’t the time to reminisce. Arthur wrenched the rear driver’s side door open—the only door that could still open—and, with a final magnificent exertion of the same caliber as toddlers lifting cribs from their trapped siblings, he lifted and dragged Alfred into the backseat of the car, pulled the door shut, and collapsed on top of him, triceps pulsating painfully.

With a low moan, Alfred lifted his head. Thickly, he said, “What happened?”

Arthur was too strung out to care about their current position: Alfred’s long legs, crammed into the small space, straddled Arthur, whose hips fit surprisingly well against Alfred’s. Arthur did pick his head up off of Alfred’s chest to say, “Oh, _now_ you wake up!”

Bleary blue eyes blinked, focused on Arthur’s face, and widened as he became aware of the situation on a physical level. “What’re you doing?”

“Waiting to be torn to bits,” Arthur replied, with a prim tone that made him sound all the more bitter. “Or perhaps not. I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

He expected Alfred to get angry, even shove him away, but he just stared at him, a hurt light entering those baby blues.

Now a sharp discomfort stabbed into Arthur’s chest. _First suffocation, now what, a heart attack? An aneurysm?_ Then he realized. _Oh._ He wasn’t experiencing anything death-related. Quite the opposite: he was feeling bad for being rude. God, he hadn’t felt remorse for something like that since . . . since. . . .

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, to compose himself. “I’m sorry.” His words came out in a whisper. “I heard something out there, and I didn’t know what it was, so I ran away from it—well, I wanted to run, but you were on the ground, so I had to take you with me. I found the car—”

“Wait.” Alfred propped himself up on his elbows, speaking intensely but still in an undertone. “You dragged me to this car? With your little arms?”

Arthur bristled. “They are not _little_ —”

Alfred raised an eyebrow and grasped his wrist, showing how easily his middle finger could reach his thumb without even touching Arthur’s flesh.

Arthur observed this for a moment— _goodness, his hands are large, I wonder if anything else is_ —then jerked his arm free. “Well, regardless of the size of my arms. Yes, I dragged you here, and I have yet to hear any sign of gratitude.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “I’m a stranger. You don’t know me. We were just arguing. And you saved me?”

“Yes, I saved you.” Arthur was pretty surprised by it himself. It sounded so heroic when you put it that way. He hadn’t done it to be heroic. Honestly, he hadn’t done it to be thanked, either. He’d done it because he would have wanted the same to be done for him, because it was the right thing to do, because he didn’t want to be left here by himself. It wasn’t selfless, but very few things were. “It wasn’t a difficult decision, if that’s what you’re wondering. It wasn’t a decision at all. It was what I had to do.”

Alfred stared at him for a few more moments, then his face cleared, and an easy smile curled his lips. He was incredibly handsome when he wasn’t glowering or mocking your nationality. “Well, then,” he said, in a _how about that_ kind of way. “Thanks, Arthur.” And he rested a hand on the small of Arthur’s back, warm even through his shirt and blazer.

Arthur felt another blush creep into his cheeks, but this one was much deeper than the first, burning his neck and chest as well, as if his heart was swelling big enough to fill him up entirely. _Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a fool, and he’s turning you into one too._ Yet Alfred was staring at him like he had before, though slightly different, softer now. Arthur found himself unable to look away. _This isn’t the time for such things._ But, once again, the logical voice in his brain was paid little heed. They had not yet been stabbed or beaten or anything terrible, and so celebration was in order; that, and there was something to be said for seeking comfort in the touch of another. And right now, after feeling so helpless and alone, it was so wonderful to feel Alfred’s thighs beneath his and his hand on his back and their noses brushing and their breath warming each other’s lips as they—

_BANG!_

They jumped apart, or as much as they could given their position, when an ungodly loud noise came from the front of the car, something blunt and solid crashing down on what was left of the bonnet. They both sat up, but the windscreen was too much of a disgrace to see the source of the sound. Before they could react to this feedback, there was a distinctive _scrape-rustle_ along the driver’s side of the car, and a torso appeared in the front window, then the rear window, the torso of a man in a black leather jacket in the window not a foot away from Arthur, and the man yanked the door open and Arthur shrank back against Alfred, and the man leaned down. . . .

And he had Alfred’s face.

The man with the face of Alfred Jones—but with darker skin and eyes the same sinister red as the sky—leant both hands on one end of a baseball bat, the other end (jagged with nails) supporting his weight from the ground. He regarded the inhabitants of the car with amusement. “I’m afraid the party’s over, kiddies. Sorry to interrupt ya, Freddy. You probably coulda got head if you played your cards right. You know how those repressed ones are.” He winked at Arthur. “Just begging for a daddy to show them the rules.”

Arthur maneuvered himself so his back was against the seat, unwilling to face away completely from this unsavory not-Alfred, and glanced at the genuine article. “Who or what is _that_?”

Alfred was staring with narrowed eyes at the bat wielder, suspicious in a way that suggested familiarity. But at Arthur’s question, his eyebrows spiked. “As if I would know! Yeah, he looks like me, but I sure as hell have never met him before.”

“Pfft, ’course ya have.” The darker man grinned, yellowed teeth bright with a sickly glisten. “You know me better than anyone, Freddy. C’mon, say my name. Don’t play coy. You know how we feel about people like that.”

Alfred shook his head slowly. “I don’t know you, man.”

“Oh, yes you do.” Without warning, he reached forward and grabbed Arthur’s arm, pulling him out of the car as if he weighed nothing at all. Arthur struggled in his grasp, once his feet were on solid ground, but the strange man’s grip was like a vice, and once he got his arm around Arthur, there was no escape. He laughed like a smoker, a gravelly wheeze, and his words warmed Arthur’s ear: “Feisty little thing, huh? Hey, I’m not complaining. I like ’em like that. Hopefully you’ll fail here just like you failed in life, and I’ll get to keep ya forever. You’ll be my little doll.”

There were plenty of things Arthur could have said, things he was expected to say to maintain the status quo— _I’ll do no such thing, unhand me,_ et cetera—but right now his strength was nearing its limit. The flame in his core had nearly been snuffed. He fell silent and stayed that way.

“Hey!” Alfred climbed out of the car indignantly. “Let go of him.” But then he had the same epiphany Arthur had. “What’re you gonna do? Kill him? He’s dead.”

The voice rumbled in Arthur’s ear, vibrated against his shoulders where they were pinned to the man’s chest. “Nope, I’m not gonna kill him. Gotta give you two a chance to get out first. That’s the rules.”

Hope bloomed in Arthur’s chest; it was all it took to rekindle the flame. _A chance to get out._ Arthur twisted in the man’s grasp so he could look up at him, glaring with all the repugnance he could summon. “And I fail to see what that has to do with holding me like this. Tell me, does the roughneck yob swaggering compensate for the size of your testicles, or do you just enjoy giving that impression?”

The red eyes narrowed—but in delight. A low chuckle oozed from the grin. “Oh, I dare you to go a few rounds with me, dollface. There’d be nothin’ left.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that,” Arthur snapped back, ignoring the knot his stomach was tying itself in.

“Ha, yeah. You’re cute. But you’re also right. I’m not here for you.” He released Arthur and tossed up his bat, catching the nail-filled end fearlessly in his gloved hand. He pushed Arthur away with the handle end of the bat poked between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “I’m here for Freddy.”

Arthur stumbled back to Alfred, who glanced at him to ensure that he was alright before glaring at the dark mirror image of himself. “Who the hell are you?”

“Jesus, what do I gotta do, spell it out for ya?” He shook his head, but agreeably flipped his bat around again and dragged the evil end through the needles, messily carving the letters in bold capitals. Each movement of the bat was accompanied by the rustling, scraping sound that had been so horrifying before. A waste of good fear.

“Allan,” read Alfred, once he was finished. Arthur saw the American’s eyes widen and face slacken with sudden understanding.

Allan grinned again, spreading out his arms. “The one and only, baby.”

Alfred had no time to form a response, because at that moment a fourth young man stepped from behind a tree, crying, “So sorry I’m late, I got a bit lost! Oh dear, it’s tricky to see where to go round here! It’s so dark at night.” He stood beside Allan, several inches shorter, like a pink mini poodle beside a rabid German shepherd. His eyes, a beautifully soft blue, found Arthur.

“Better late than never,” sneered Allan, eager for Arthur’s reaction.

Unlike Alfred, Arthur had no trouble finding the name of the man who looked so much like him. He recognized the strawberry blond hair; it had always been softer than Arthur’s, even without all the products the latter used. He recognized the abundance of freckles; they had made him the cute one, leaving Arthur no choice but to be the handsome one. He recognized the ridiculous pastel pink-and-blue clothing; he had personally picked out the light pink shirt and the darker sweater he wore over it. It had been a birthday present.

“O-Ollie,” Arthur stammered out, at once overstimulated and numb. So many memories flashed in his mind that he couldn’t make sense of a single one. They were a million frames on a reel flicking by too fast to be processed. The more he tried to grab at them, the further behind he fell. There was nothing, really, nothing that he could do. The choice had been made far, far too long ago to change anything now. There was nothing for it.

Oliver smiled sweetly, eyes glimmering with utter joy. “Artie! I’ve missed you so much!” He hurried forward and hugged Arthur, his body soft with puppy fat against Arthur’s unpadded bones. He even had the same smell Oliver had, lovely vanilla from the extract he rubbed behind his ears every time he baked, which could be several times a day. The scent crystallized a memory: Oliver in the kitchen, white with flour, cheerfully making cookies and cakes and pastries for church, school, any fundraiser or bake sale he caught wind of. Arthur felt tears in his eyes, quivering on the rims, the closest he had been to crying in a year. A year since . . . since . . .

Arthur pulled back, out of the embrace, and Oliver stepped back too, so he stood beside Allan again. Arthur remained in his place at Alfred’s side, arms aching and limp, a cloud of vanilla dissipating around him.

Alfred was staring. “Who is Ollie?”

Arthur couldn’t tear his gaze from the smiling boy. “He . . . he was my brother.”

Allan’s grin was a crescent moon in the dark. “And now he’s your demon.” He put an arm around Oliver, snuggling him to his side, and lifted his despicable bat up onto his shoulder. “And I’m yours, Freddy Boy.” Absolute sadistic delight sparkled in those bloodred eyes. “And if you ladies wanna go to heaven, you’re gonna have to find a way to get rid of us.”

Oliver giggled merrily. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun!”


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred had given up trying to make sense of all this. Now he simply accepted that crazy things were occurring and focused on what to do about it. That was a mark of a city dweller, as far as he was concerned at least. Country folk couldn’t handle change; everything there had to move slow so they could get used to it. That’s why the rubes were all racist and homophobic. _Behind the times._ But Alfred moved fast. He adapted. He could survive anything.

 _Except death._ Apparently.

“How the hell did I die?” Alfred demanded. He was sitting on the half-destroyed hood of the car (with a fresh dent in the metal, courtesy of a baseball bat) while Allan leant against a tree a few feet away. As strange at this was, it honestly felt like school. The assembly at the beginning of the year got kids all pumped up to go out and find their dreams—only to send them to math class to learn how to multiply fractional exponents. Who on God’s green earth had fractional exponents in their dreams? _Probably the rich kid, actually._ Alfred glanced in the Brits’ direction. The English brothers had moved away from the two Americans, and were currently huddled together and speaking in hushed tones. Alfred hoped Arthur wasn’t losing his head over there. No matter who or what these two guys claimed to be, Alfred had no reason to trust them. He had no real reason to trust Arthur, for that matter, except the fact that the other man had tried to protect him. He seemed like a good person—rational, if not kind. _Rational when he isn’t trying to suck face with me._

Not that Alfred wasn’t guilty of wanting the kiss, as well. The guy was hot, sue him. Plus, Arthur had made it sound like there was a fifty-fifty chance of them dying within the next ten seconds, and Alfred preferred to spend the final moments of his life doing something enjoyable. (Had he?) Arthur’s breath smelled like a hipster café Alfred had spray-painted phallic symbols on one night—which was to say, like tea.

Allan’s gaze was on his bat; he fingered a splinter sticking out from it and replied thoughtfully, “Seems like somethin’ you should know.”

Alfred crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah? Well, I don’t. I barely even know who you are—”

Scarlet eyes flashed up to his face. “Don’t give me that shit. Dollface is over there with Ollie, Fred. He ain’t listening. You don’t have to lie.”

Alfred glared, then looked away. “Dad’s name is Allan, yeah. But you’re obviously not him. You don’t look like him. You look like me, but ugly.” He snuck a sidelong glance, to see the reaction.

Allan blew him a kiss. “Aw, thanks, sweetheart.” He tore the splinter from his bat and studied it as if it was a very curious phenomenon. “First of all, ease off on the logic. You just died an hour ago. Nothin’s gonna make sense from here on out. And don’t ask me how you died. Maybe it wasn’t obvious by how I scared the piss outta you two, but my job ain’t to help you get outta here.” He started picking his teeth with the splinter, regarding Alfred with a lackadaisical expression. “I already told you my name. That’s more help than you deserve.”

“How is that help?”

Allan tossed his toothpick away and, without warning, slammed his bat into the only headlight the car had left; it shattered with a sound that had Arthur and Ollie jumping in fright, but Alfred barely flinched. He was too irritated to be scared.

“Jesus, you’re stupid,” Allan said, lifting his bat back to its place on his shoulder. “Good thing Dolly has half a brain. You just might get outta here.” He leaned closer, teeth bright in his sadistic grin. “But damn, I hope you don’t. I hope you stay here for years. I’ll get to play with you until you beg me to let you go to hell.”

Now Alfred’s brow furrowed. “Wait. Are you the Devil?”

“Ha. I wish.” Allan looked amused. “I told you. I’m your demon.”

“My demon.” Alfred wracked his brain on what that could mean. Something to do with souls? Demons were evil creatures, weren’t they? He tried to picture one. Red horns, pointy tail? Or was that the Devil? _Shit._ He didn’t know anything about mythology, and even if he did, who knew if it even applied here? Still, he was fairly certain Allan and Oliver weren’t Satan, or Lucifer, or whatever. They didn’t seem to have anything to do with sins. Allan hadn’t even mentioned the fact that Alfred and Arthur both liked guys, and Alfred had seen enough anti-gay rallies to know religious people got pissed about that.

“Well, whatever the hell you are,” Alfred said, “do you expect me to just _know_ how to get rid of you? I don’t even know what that means. And don’t tell me nothing’s gonna make sense. Just because you say your job isn’t to help me doesn’t mean you’re actually not allowed to. You admit you’re a demon.” He fixed the darker version of himself with a suspicious glare. “You’re probably just lying to me.”

Something complicated entered the red eyes. His smile was clever, cunning. He waited just a bit too long to say, “I think we should take a stroll. I’m gonna show you somethin’. Your last hint. Just because you’re such a cutie pie.”

Alfred hesitated, glancing over at Arthur. The Englishman was walking off into the trees, Oliver holding his hand and leading the way. _Guess I don’t have to worry about leaving him alone, if he’s just leaving me._ (Alfred did realize that there wasn’t much, if anything, Arthur could do in retaliation if either were attacked. Alfred didn’t know if he himself could do anything, but he felt like he had a better chance.)

“Okay, let’s go.” Alfred slid off the hood of the car and followed Allan into the trees. The night had not darkened, nor had it lightened; the trees remained soaked through with shadow, the sky remained a painful crimson. It wasn’t easy to see things, but it wasn’t impossible, either. Mostly it was like tunnel vision; things became murky after a few feet, nothingness beyond that.

Allan was whistling. Alfred listened for a moment before he recognized _Yankee Doodle._ Despite everything, he had to laugh. “You don’t strike me as the patriotic type.”

Allan raised a lazy eyebrow, glancing at him. “I don’t strike you.”

Something about the way he said it, flatly so it wasn’t really a question, with that wicked bat on his shoulder, made the hair along the back of Alfred’s neck rise. He rubbed it, stifling a shiver, and said, “I probably got run over or something stupid like that. Stupid tourists can’t drive in the city. Or the gangs, they don’t know how to drive right, either. I probably got clipped by one of ’em while they were showing off to their girlfriends.”

Allan scoffed, but he didn’t sound particularly upset. “Typical Freddie. Takin’ blame off himself.”

Now Alfred bristled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The harsh words, and the anger rising inside him, made familiar pain bloom in his temple. He pressed his fingertips into it, wincing, and tried to force himself calm. He tried to imagine what Arthur would say. _He’s trying to get a rise out of you._ The realization brought relief from the pain. He wouldn’t get upset, just to spite the red-eyed bastard.

Allan smirked, eyes sparkling in a disconcertingly knowing way. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

 _Don’t take the bait. Stay calm._ He was not good at being careful, but he would try. “Doesn’t feel the best, no. Why? You saying this is my fault? My death was my fault?”

Allan raised his eyebrows at him, then shifted his bat off his shoulder and held it out at his side, letting the nailed end whack against every tree trunk they passed. Each smack of wood-on-wood made annoyance pulse in Alfred’s head, which in turn had pain throbbing against his skull.

“Something to do with my head,” Alfred said, because he always thought better aloud. “And with anger. Right? Every time I get mad, my head hurts. How does getting angry kill a guy? What did I do, have a stroke?”

Now Allan snorted. “What do you think?”

No stroke. Seventeen-year-olds didn’t have random strokes. So what, then? It could have been anything. Alfred stared at the demon walking beside him, weaving between the trees. Maybe he hadn’t been wrong about the gang thing. The black leather jacket was pretty iconic for a gang, and the fingerless gloves, the boots. The bat, who hadn’t heard of stories of teenage boys with bats beating up people’s cars at night? _Or beating up the people themselves._ That gave Alfred pause. His head hurt . . . and his demon held a bat . . . and his demon was wearing clothes that Alfred himself would likely wear, if he joined a gang. His father’s voice—the other Allan—echoed in his mind. _Might as well join up while you’re fresh. The gang I ran with didn’t take anybody over eighteen. I coulda been leader of it right now, if I hadn’t met your mother. And look where that got me._

He hated his father, for having him. He hated his mother, for giving him away.

 _You’re a fucking piece of work_ , his father had told him. _He’s too much work_ , he’d heard his mother say on the phone. _I thought I could keep him from getting into bad crowds, but . . . yes, he’s just so . . . I know, his temper, he gets so easily carried away, I just think he’d be better off with his father. I’m scared . . . it’s horrible to think, but I’m honestly scared one day he’ll hurt me._

He never would have. But maybe he would. There was no predicting what he might do when he got in the right mood. When he got worked up. Carried away.

Did his father care he was dead? Probably not. He probably didn’t even know. Did his mother care?

_I’m sorry, Mom . . ._

“Hey, pretty boy, wake up,” Allan said, bringing him back. “Watch your step.”

Alfred stopped walking. They were at another clearing, a little body of water, smaller than a lake but bigger than a pond. Alfred had almost stepped into the water. It was completely dark, like a huge puddle of black ink, and when Alfred looked down into it, his face reflected as clearly as a mirror. He looked more exhausted than he felt, dark smudges beneath pale blue eyes.

Allan stepped up behind him, so that it looked like his head was resting on Alfred’s shoulder. “There we are. Beauty and beast. Now do you know who I am?”

Gang clothes. The bat. The darkness, the violence. His mother’s voice. _It breaks my heart every day. I can see him turning out just like his father._ The demon, a namesake. A reflection not of present, but of future.

In the murky water, Alfred’s eyes widened. “You’re what I’ll be. What I would have been, if I didn’t die.”

Allan’s teeth were like bloodstained bones. “Ding ding ding, Freddie Boy.” Then his reflection vanished, and Alfred turned—to see a bat swinging at him.

He flung his hands up to protect himself; the bat slammed into them with enough force to stagger him, the shock of the blow reverberating through his body until it settled in his brain as a nauseous ache. He backed away, shouting, “What the hell?!”

Allan’s grin seemed fixed to his face. It also seemed to hold more teeth than normal. “What’s wrong, pussy boy? Scared of a little ol’ bat?” He lunged forward and swung again.

Alfred barely had time to dodge the blow; he felt the breeze of it on his chest. “Fuck off!” A fiery blade twisted in his skull. He clamped his hands on his head as if to keep it from exploding. “I—I remember—”

And he did. The last night, walking home from getting a bagel. The place was out of sour cream. He’d been mad about that already. Then the trio came along, bad things always came in threes. He recognized them, but he didn’t know their names. They were talking shit, calling him weak, daring him to fight them. _Let’s take this somewhere, let’s go, come on, fag._ Most of them were all talk. Alfred thought these fools were, too, so he started fighting them. He took one out before the other two caught on, but he held his own against the pair. Until another one came out of an ally and dragged him in. Until the fists were replaced with the killing weapon.

The bat.

His head.

Red flashed in his eyes.

He was down with the first strike.

But they kept hitting.

He couldn’t see, but he heard it.

He heard his skull crack.

He heard brains splashing out on the pavement.

He felt blood burning his skin.

Hatred ate his face.

And then.

Death.

Dark.

Trees.

Arthur.

Allan swung the bat again, but it seemed to be in slow motion. Alfred felt his heart beating in his chest—not fast with fear or fury, but slow. Calm. At peace. And he realized: _I don’t need to fight this. I don’t need to run from this._ He was not afraid of the bat. He was not going to fight anymore. He was _not_ going to become his father.

So he didn’t move. The bat swung at him, but he stood his ground, hands at his sides, blue gaze resolute.

There would be no surrender. But there would be no war, either.

He simply said, “No.”

The bat went right through him, as if it were a hologram, and vanished in a puff of black smoke.

Allan stood up straight, looked at Alfred in surprise, then a half-smile curled the right side of his mouth. There was genuine, begrudging respect in his scarlet eyes. “Good job, Freddie Boy,” he said, and within his voice Alfred heard his father, his mother, his guidance counselor, everyone who had ever expected something from him and been let down. Finally, _finally_ , he had done the right thing. He felt lighter than he ever had.

Then the smile became a smirk, and the evil glimmer returned to Allan’s gaze. “Better go kiss your boyfriend goodbye. Ollie’s almost done with him.”

Alfred blinked. “Arthur? Where is he?”

Allan was fading swiftly, becoming translucent. He held a finger to his lips.

Alfred grabbed the front of his jacket, demanding, “Where is he?”

But the demon just gave one last grin and was gone with a swirl of smoke.

Alfred turned on his heel and raced into the trees.


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as he saw his brother, Arthur’s memories began to return. Oliver was two years younger than him; all of Arthur’s childhood memories involved the younger boy in some way. Teaching him to play checkers (and never letting him win), reading him books without pictures, testing out the best techniques for dipping biscuits into tea. Oliver was always the soft one, the sweet one: his strawberry hair, vanilla scent, and light blue eyes made him one of those people the entire world wanted to protect. Their upper class sort didn’t often partake in physical affection, but Arthur recalled many a lady who had pinched Oliver’s cheeks, and a handful of men who had bent to ruffle the boy’s hair. No one had ever done that to Arthur. It was clear, as far back as he could remember, who the favorite child was. Their parents both adored Oliver. _He’s such a lovely boy. So kind._ That was what they said about Oliver. Arthur knew what they said about him, as well. _A very bright young man. That one’s going places._

All expectations fell on Arthur’s shoulders. He was the one who had to continue the Kirkland legacy. Oliver was simply a happy surprise. An extra. Frosting on the cake. _How lucky I am_ , their mother would say, _to have two special sons like you._ Arthur had never seen what was so special about Oliver. No one ever asked Oliver about his plans for the future. They asked Arthur, even though everyone knew. _Off to university? That’s a good chap, just like your father, eh? You’ll make him proud, won’t you?_ Of course he would. Oliver wasn’t going to make anyone proud. He wouldn’t know how if he tried. Arthur had asked him, once, what he wanted to be when he grew up. His brother had tilted his head, losing himself in thought before eventually responding, _Perhaps I’ll be a baker. I could make sweets all day, then. That would be nice._

Imagine if the eldest Kirkland son had wanted to be a baker. No one would have entertained the thought, Arthur least of all. Perhaps he would have had his own interests, his own private ambitions, had they not been carved out the moment he started school. _You must pay attention to everything the teacher says_ , his father told him, the first day. _We want you to get top marks, just like I did. Everything is easier if you’re good at school, and the way to get good is to pay attention._

That was the difference between them. Arthur paid attention, had never stopped paying attention. Oliver didn’t notice anything that wasn’t pointed out to him. He went through life in a cloud of flour and vanilla, smiling at strangers, happy just to exist.

Now, looking at his brother in this limbo forest, Arthur tried to figure out what was off about him. He looked just like Ollie, smelt like him, spoke like him. But there was something different. Something darker. It wasn’t as obvious as the aura looming around Allan, but it made Arthur wary. _Nothing here is what it appears to be. I can’t trust this thing that looks like my brother._

“What’s this about demons?” Arthur asked, trying to be casual about it. It seemed like the sort of thing that should be downplayed. This conversation felt very uneasy; each question was another step onto ice of unknown thickness. He wouldn’t know if he would fall through until it was too late.

Oliver shrugged, cheerful. “That’s what I am. Allan told me. I know the rules.”

“Oh, rules?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Really? That sounds complicated. They must be hard to remember.”

Oliver smiled, shaking his head proudly. “Nope! I know them all.”

The familiar rhythm of the game made Arthur feel at ease. It was coming back to him. _Be nice to your brother,_ they always told him. _He isn’t as smart as you, so you’ll just have to be kind to him._ “That’s impressive. Do you think you could tell me what they are?”

His brother looked reluctant. “I don’t know, Artie . . .”

Arthur gave him a reassuring smile. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Not even Alfred. And you won’t tell Allan, and it’ll be our little secret. How does that sound?”

Normally, Oliver would have lit up like a sunrise at the thought of a secret shared between him and his brother. But this demon remained uncertain, replying, “Well . . . I can maybe tell you them.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But we should go away from here. Allan might hear me and get upset, and he’s scary when he’s angry.”

_BANG!_

Arthur’s heart leapt into his throat, and he and Oliver both looked toward the car, where Allan had just smashed out its other headlight. _My poor car._ Arthur wanted to protest, but there was no use. It didn’t matter anymore. Arthur tried to remember the specifics of the crash, but it was difficult. Not in the same way that trying to remember his death was difficult, either. His death was walled off within his mind; no matter how much he circled it, the knowledge remained blocked-off, unattainable. Like a word that simply couldn’t be remembered, no matter how hard one thought about it. The brain knew it had once held the information, but it had no way of getting it back. The crash was not like this. He saw the memories, but through a warped, foggy lens. He saw the steering wheel, so blurred it almost looked doubled. He saw the speedometer, but not the numbers. The needle indicated a speed he had no recollection of ever reaching before. Where the hell had he been driving?

He would have to think about it after speaking to Oliver, because his brother was twining their fingers at present. “Come on,” he said, with one of his small, innocent smiles. “I know a place we can go. It’s a secret, too. We’ll tell secrets in a secret.”

Here was another red flag, because Oliver would never have made such an abstract connection. But Arthur went along with it, smiling and letting the demon pull him through the trees. Despite his earlier complaints of getting lost, he seemed to have no trouble cutting a path through the shadowy forest. These discrepancies stacked in Arthur’s mind. _Be careful. Do not trust him._

“So, are you Ollie?” Arthur asked, in the same light tone as before. Nothing accusatory. Nothing that could light a fuse. “Or do you just look like him?”

The demon didn’t look back. “Ooh, that’s tricky,” he replied, cheerful as ever. “I’m not sure. Should Ollie be here?”

“Here, in limbo? No, of course not. That would mean he was dead.”

Now the demon glanced over his shoulder. There was sympathy in those soft blue eyes, but in a way that Oliver would never, ever have. _Oh, you poor thing. Don’t you understand?_

Arthur’s first instinct was to bristle at such a look of condescension, but then the words sunk in. Oliver. Dead. The car, driving . . . _I remember . . . I was drunk, and Oliver was there, they said to bring him along . . . no one ever invited me to parties, I think they only invited me that time because they met Oliver at a fundraiser . . . everyone loved him . . . but he didn’t like the music and the drinking, he wanted to go home . . . he didn’t have his license, but I told him I was fine, I could drive . . . he trusted me . . ._

There was no rain. The road was dry. The evening was not yet dark enough to need headlights. They were perfect driving conditions. But Arthur, the eldest son whose intelligence was proven by a wall of academic excellence awards, had a brain full of alcohol. He could not process. He could not think. He could barely see straight.

Maybe a cat ran across the street in front of him.

Maybe he veered too close to an oncoming car and overcorrected.

Or maybe, more likely than anything else, he simply lost control. The one thing he, a gentleman, and _English_ man, was never supposed to do.

Car met telephone pole, impossibly loud. Arthur’s head knocked against the steering wheel, and when he could see again, a uniformed woman was helping him out of the car. His words were slurred with drink and concussion; his tongue would not obey him. _My brother_ , he tried to say, over and over. _My brother is in there._

Semantics.

His brother’s body was in there, yes. Crushed to a pulp, face full of glass from the passenger window.

But Oliver Kirkland, the boy who wanted to be a baker, was not and would never again be in that car.

_It’s all my fault._

Arthur’s hands rushed to his face, hiding his shame and wiping furiously at the tears that had gathered in his eyes. He mustn’t cry. Stiff upper lip and all that. But their mother had cried. Their father had never looked at Arthur the same way again. They no longer told him how proud they were. His peers no longer ignored him; now they whispered behind his back. _He’s the one who killed his brother. Did you see the picture in the paper? The pole split right in two. Yeah, driving drunk, what an idiot._ It was all his fault. He had made the wrong choice. A bad decision. A mistake that cost an innocent life.

_It should have been me._

“Here we are, Artie,” Oliver said, unbothered by the tears. “Here’s the secret.”

Arthur let his hands drop. They had come to a clearing, this one smaller than the one with the car. At first, Arthur didn’t understand what he was supposed to be looking at. There was nothing on the ground. Nothing of any note except the fact that one of the trees was much thicker than the others; Arthur recognized it as an oak, a lone deciduous in this sea of conifers. And hanging from an outstretched branch, like an offering to the boys, was a rope tied into a noose.

The walls in his mind fell down. He remembered the dark hole of depression he had fallen into. They called it wallowing in sorrow, and he was waterlogged. He could barely move, barely think. His marks suffered. At first, his professors were understanding, but their generosity did not extend beyond a month. _Unfortunately, Mr. Kirkland, life must go on. There are many others who would love to be enrolled at this school, and if you cannot keep your place, someone else will take it._ He knew what he was expected to do. Suck it up. Deal with it. Tuck the overwhelming self-hatred away. But he couldn’t.

So he’d gotten a belt. Suicide was not as simple as they made it out to be in films. It took several tries to figure out a knot that would hold his weight. The bar of his closet was a fair enough replacement for a tree branch. He’d taken his shirts and laid them out on his bed, first. He’d heard of what could happen upon death, and he didn’t want to dirty the shirts. They would be sold, he assumed. They were probably expensive enough to cover the funeral costs. Two funerals within three months. The poor Kirkland family. Their son had made headlines, in the end. He had gone places. One place. Purgatory.

“Rule number one,” Oliver said. “The souls only get two hints.”

Arthur turned to look at his brother, but the demon was nowhere to be seen. The car and the noose were his hints, then. He wondered what entity had come up with these rules. A god? A devil? Or something in between? _(Isn’t that just a man?)_

“Rule number two.” His voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “Every soul is different. Become what will hurt them the most.”

Arthur felt his blood run cold at such diabolical words coming from his brother’s mouth. _Puppetmaster._ His breath had become shallow; he saw himself hanging in the closet. He remembered a full two minutes of terror and regret. He remembered clawing at the belt, instinct to live outweighing all else, but being unable to save himself. A failure, even in that.

“And rule number three. If they remember how they died . . .” Oliver rushed from the darkness and latched his hands around Arthur’s neck, his grip vice-like despite his stubby, once-soft fingers. His blue eyes flashed, frigid, excited by the chance to kill. “End them once and for all.”

Arthur opened his mouth but could get out no sound. He saw himself kicking in the closet, unable to scream for help. _Alfred!_ He needed the American now, _now_ , he was going to die! But what if Alfred was in trouble, too? That thought, more than the first, gave power to his struggle. He pushed at Oliver’s shoulders, yanked at his arms, but it was a choke chain; no matter what direction he tried, it only tightened. Strained threads of black wove themselves into the edges of his vision, encroaching with each insistent beat of his heart.

“I loved you so, so much. I wished I could be like you if I got older. You were always the smartest,” the demon said in Oliver’s sweet, musical voice. “You always made the best decisions, Artie.”

“No—I wasn’t,” Arthur forced out, a raspy croak more than anything. He could not scream, but damn it, if he could get something out before he ceased to exist, it had to be this. The pain of his throat brought fresh tears, but he shoved the words past it all. “I was stupid, I—I ruined—everything—”

Oliver smiled the small, perfect smile of an angel, but his eyes held that same wicked, derisive, false sympathy as before. “Oh, Artie. I forgive you. You’re my big brother, of course I forgive you!” He tilted his head to one side, genuine curiosity on his freckled face. “But do you forgive yourself?”

 _Why would I do that? How could I ever?_ Arthur’s throat was nearly closed. He could not ask his question, could not argue. He had once been captain member of the debate team, and now he was reduced to a wordless, breathless soul trapped in a place without reason. He was nothing, here. Nothing but a skeleton held together by the sheer force of his guilt.

And that was the epiphany.

Staring into his little brother’s eyes, death about to seal a dark lid over his own gaze, Arthur realized he was no longer the same person who had strung himself up with a patent leather belt. He had seen no escape from his suffering, but he saw now that existence was larger than any tiny pocket of sadness. He had not doomed his brother. He had no doubt that Oliver, the real Oliver, was in a bright happy place elsewhere, making cupcakes all day, humming children’s songs and being happy, as always, simply to exist.

He could not hate himself forever. Oliver did not hate him, never had and never would. He had to let it go.

He had to forgive himself.

He thought of Alfred Jones, taking him at face-value, fighting him only because of what lay on the surface, and nearly kissing him for what lay on the inside. _Thanks, Arthur._ He was not a bad person. He had made a mistake, but that did not made him a bad person.

_It should have been me. But it wasn’t. And that’s . . . that’s just the way it is._

“Yes,” he choked out, one final word before his throat was completely constricted. His final note to the world. Yes. Even after the terrible deed, the sins committed. After the rescue effort, the tiny acts of kindness. In the face of everything. He forgave himself.

Oliver went still, his face blank. Then the eyes softened with warm, genuine, brotherly love. The smile was the same smile his little brother gave him before they went to bed each night. _Night night._

Then he vanished into the shadows, fading into nothingness as Arthur dropped, gasping, to the ground. He didn’t know how long he stayed there on the ground, but his breathing had evened out by the time he felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up swiftly, but without fear.

Alfred Jones looked down at him, blue eyes a million miles from Oliver’s. Even calling them both blue was inaccurate. Oliver’s were pastel; Alfred’s were circular slices of summer sky. “You okay?” he asked, offering helpful hands.

Arthur let Alfred assist him to stand, a smile slowly curving his mouth upward. “I am,” he replied. “Are you?”

“I’m fine,” Alfred said, then seemed to think about it, the phrase so many people used and so few people meant. “No, actually. I’m good.” A grin peeked hesitantly between his lips. “I’m great.”

They were still holding hands. Both felt lighter than they ever had. There was no worry, now. They knew they could face whatever came to them, for they had faced the hardest obstacle of all: themselves. They were not perfect, but they no longer hated themselves for it. They no longer feared they would not become someone else. They knew what they were, and they wore it with pride.

“You’re staring at me again,” Arthur remarked, raising a teasing eyebrow. Perhaps it wouldn’t be unthinkable to spend an eternity with this American.

Alfred blinked, then laughed. “I wasn’t even doing it on purpose that time. I was thinking. Wondering what happens next.”

As if it had been waiting for the cue, the sky above changed. The crimson bled away to the soft pink of dawn; the black clouds were wrung out of their ink and swirled a sparkling gold. The two boys who were men who were souls watched the light flow down to reach them among the trees; when it touched the oak tree, the noose vanished in black smoke, its darkness unable to exist once blessed by the light. The shaft of light was like a solid thing, a transparent waterfall glittering with flecks of miracles. It was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen, and both were drawn to its welcoming aura of kindness, friendship, love, tranquility.

Alfred glanced at Arthur, a little uncertain. “You think I could really do the whole halo-and-wings thing?”

“If I can, you can.” Arthur gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll do it together.”

It was a proposal as much as a comfort, and in response, Alfred pressed his smiling lips to Arthur’s. They kissed as Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred’s shoulders, as Alfred put an arm around Arthur’s waist, his other hand cupping the pale, pretty face. They kissed as thirty-five collective years of self-doubt, self-despair, self-damning fell away, absolved.

“Mm,” Arthur mumbled.

“Wha—?” Alfred asked, mouth still mostly connected to Arthur’s.

The Englishman allowed the kiss to last a moment longer before pulling back enough to say, rather dazed, “Goodness. I just, ah . . . Goodness.” Neither were experienced kissers, but it had been a superb place to start. “I just think it might be a good idea to go ahead with the afterlife and do the kissing later. I’d hate to have heaven close the door on us because they got tired of waiting for us to finish snogging.”

Alfred stared at him. “Okay, first off, I’m pretty sure heaven or whatever’s up there ain’t gonna ruin a moment like that. Like you just did.”

Arthur opened his mouth indignantly. “I did _not_ —”

“And second,” Alfred said, barely holding back his laughter, “ _snogging_?”

“What’s wrong with snogging?”

“I mean, is that even English?”

“Of course it’s English! What else would I, of all people, be speaking?”

They were possibly the first pair of people to argue while stepping into the light, and they would go on to argue through the rest of their long existence, but each teasing retort deepened their love for each other. It was not exactly peace they rested in, but that suited them just fine. Their lives were imperfect, and their afterlives were the same, and they would have it no other way.

  


_The End._


End file.
